


The DJD Hotline

by AsYouCommand (OminousHummingObelisk)



Series: Kibble & Bits & Bits & Bits [5]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Anti-Religious Policies, Classical Music, Misuse of Faction Resources for (Questionable) Personal Gain, Other, Pettiness, Team Bonding Activities, snitching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 19:58:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11387322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OminousHummingObelisk/pseuds/AsYouCommand
Summary: In which a lone, brave Decepticon calls the Justice Division to report traitorous activity and Tarn enforces proper priorities.





	The DJD Hotline

**Author's Note:**

> Original prompt: post by [chief-justice-tyrese.tumblr.com](http://chief-justice-tyrese.tumblr.com/post/150213380431/djd-traitor-hotline):
>
>> Okay, what if the DJD had this phone number you could call to report a traitor? Obviously, they’d “investigate” but this was originally set up as another scare tactic (you couldn’t trust others because they’re a snitch, or whatever) and to make it easier for the DJD. But Tarn thought it was the perfect way to make others listen to his mixtapes. He’d have callers be put on hold so they’d listen to his music. The drawback was that if you hung up before the first song ended, you could get put on The List yourself.

After hours spent hiding in the ceiling, hoping that the traitors wouldn’t realize that they’d been discovered and come after him, the weirdly mellow hold music on the comm freq is finally replaced with a smooth, dark voice. “Thank you for calling the Official Decepticon Injustice Report Hotline. This is Commander Tarn speaking. First--”

“Sir!! _Sir!!_ There are these people just outside and they _have religion_ , sir, like Megatron is some part of Primus and they’re _worshipping_ him and it’s so-–” 

The voice cuts him off, smoothly and darkly. “That certainly sounds like something that needs our attention, loyal soldier. I assume that you _are_ a loyal soldier, correct?” 

“Super loyal, sir! I took advanced Justice For The Cause indoctrination courses back in my-–” 

Another interruption. So smooth. _So_ dark. “Yes, yes, quite commendable. However, before I can take your injustice report, I must first ask a few quality assurance questions.” 

There’s a noise from outside, maybe even the murmur of voices. He dials his own vocalizer down low, whispering urgently into his comms. “S-sir, please, I don’t think I have time; I think they’re looking for me and just-– You can get my location from the commlink, right? They’re _literally right here_ and they were _praying_ and there’s these tiny icons with Megatron with a halo and-–” 

Smooth. Dark. Sudden. “Our systems indicate that you have been on hold for the local equivalent of four hours and seven minutes. Is that correct?” 

“Um, yes, sir, but please, just-–” 

That interruption? Smooth and dark. “In the interest of making injustice reporting a more positive and enjoyable experience for loyal soldiers across the galaxy, it is DJD policy to provide music on this frequency when it is, ah, necessary to put callers on hold due to our very busy justice-enforcing schedules.” 

“Sir, _please_ , I just heard someone mention a living fuel sacrifice and there’s this crackling sound; I think they’re _lighting torches_ -–” 

Not only smooth and dark, but also unmoved and seemingly unconcerned. “Did you, in fact, experience music while on hold? And was the transmission without static or other interference?” 

Stealthy footsteps below suggest that the Megatron-worshipping Primalist traitors are spreading out to search the buildings carefully, hunting him as though he was an Autobot, and he honestly can’t remember the first damn thing about the hold music. Serving the Cause by reporting this great betrayal might very well be the last thing he ever does, and he wants to do it right. But…refusing to answer a question posed by the DJD commander is also a horrible crime, so… “I heard it, sir. I think it was pretty clear. Sir, if you can’t get a loc ping from the comm, I’m in a ruined base on the moon of Eld III, coordinates-–” 

While still mostly smooth and dark, Tarn’s voice picks up a distinct edge of annoyance. “You _think?_ Since you heard it clearly, perhaps you might describe for me the nature of the music - its genre, tone, instrumentation, and such. Particularly any important thematic elements that stood out to you.” 

He can smell the chem-torches as the traitors enter the building where he’s hiding. His spark has never spun so fast. “I just – fine, okay, it was some…slow stuff, cool jazz or easy listening or whatever the frag; sir, coordinates are 08.221.72 plus eight-–” 

The smooth darkness grows a coat of ice. “That’s really all you choose to say about it? _Slow stuff._ No mention of the recurring use of the electro-zither to create a subtle sorrow? Or of the closed, interlocking melodic loops that link all pieces in the suite together? You were on hold for _four hours_ ; there was plenty of time for you to pick up on these sorts of things, unless you’re the worst kind of uncultured idiot.” 

They are converging on his pitiful shelter in the ceiling. He hears the soft, oiled sound of ritual daggers sliding from their sheaths and tries to keep the sob out of his voice, tries to do the right thing one last time. “Coordinates are 08.221.72 plus-–” 

Less smooth, still dark, mostly outraged. “Do you even know how much training and raw effort is required just to _play_ a three-toned Harmonexian hum-caster? _Do you??_ I suppose you think that just _anyone_ is capable of crafting whole suites of negative anti-hymns in the style of the Golden Age’s third decade - specifically the _third_ decade, the only one that produced styles of that level of elegance. Is that what you think? That all of this _slow stuff_ is simply beneath your high and mighty notice, oh lord among critics??” 

Several yards away, a Megatron-worshipper lifts up a ceiling panel and peers over at him, baring fangs in a grin. “Found you,” the cultist whispers, as though preserving the hush of the comm call. 

He chokes on his failure and pushes out his final words. “I tried. I’m sorry, sir. I tried.” Light pools at the edges of his optics. 

Across the line, Tarn - his voice still a little smooth and dark, despite all that he’s endured over the past several minutes - snarls, “Megatron save me from these _fucking primitives_ ,” and cuts the call with the finality of a guillotine. 

* 

Tarn storms out of the isolated comm suite and onto the _Peaceful Tyranny_ ’s bridge, changing into a tank and back every third step. He pauses at a workstation to log in and adjust the List. Of course, the second anyone connects with the hotline freq, their entire identity is logged on the DJD’s systems - their name, serial number, physical location, unit, disciplinary record. This caller’s record is completely pristine apart from several commendations for loyalty and enthusiastic service, and that means that there’s very little data strain on the system when Tarn sweeps that tone-deaf slagstain into the crosshairs with the rest of the undesirables. He pauses a moment, then makes a note to investigate some vague, unsubstantiated rumor of religious activity, somewhere in the Auld system or something? Maybe? 

The rest of the DJD have paused in their work, hunkered down a little in their seats, exchanging glances as they feel out what Tarn’s mood requires. _It happened again_ , Kaon mouths to the others. Helex taps his audio sensor and they all nod solemnly. Tarn is glaring down at the List on the screen and his claws are digging into the edges of the keyboard. 

Kaon puts his head in the noose for the sake of the mission. “Say, sir…did you ever upload that new music collection to the hotline? That one you spent months working on? We were looking forward to hearing it.” 

Tesarus grimaces slightly at that sentiment (ugh, Tarn and his nonstop classical music boner) and Kaon makes small, urgent throat-cutting gestures at him from across the room. The grinder picks up the thread as an apology. “Uh…yeah, sir, you said it had…” Kaon databursts the details on a locked-down precision crypto freq. “…Third decade Golden Age negative anti-hymns, right?” _What the sweet slag does that even translate to?_ , he texts back. “Man, those are my favorites. Other decades can’t touch that style.” 

Tarn spears him with a slightly unhinged stare. “I know, _right??_ ” he snaps. 

“Some people just don’t understand how much effort goes into making really good music,” Helex notes. “And that’s sad.” 

Vos weighs in with a carefully-casual statement about how playing the three-toned Harmonexian hum-caster sends a mech’s erotic appeal through the roof, even in wartime, and especially when paired with the mournful warble of the electro-zither. _Don’t lay it on too thick or you’ll blow the whole op_ , Kaon bursts to him. 

Before anyone can patch anything over, Tarn sighs and straightens and steps into the middle of the room. “Team building exercise! Everyone, on your feet!” The DJD lunge upright, collectively fearing the near future. Tarn spreads his arms. “Mutually nurturing physical contact! Ready, and… _execute!_ ” The others all converge on their commander and squish together into a group hug, armor groaning and paint peeling as they shimmy into the least painful configuration possible. Vos gasps out a plea for mercy from somewhere near the floor. 

Tarn hugs everyone especially tightly, and when he speaks, his voice trembles slightly with emotion. “This unit, this connection, is so very, very precious. When I am with all of you, I am continually reminded of how we represent what is best in the Decepticon Cause. The virtues espoused by our Leader - loyalty, mutual aid, equality, breadth of cultural awareness -,” and here Tesarus rolls his optics, unseen by his shorter commander, “these things flow from each one of you in a never-ending stream, and I shall be eternally proud to have served the Cause beside you.” 

Everyone else makes appropriate emotional noises and hugs the group tighter until some part of Vos audibly snaps, at which point the clump of mandatory warm fuzzies finally breaks apart. After giving the experience a moment to settle, Kaon helpfully redirects, “So…shall we continue the hunt for Overlord? I have a very promising-–” 

Tarn sends a command to the main screen, displaying the last known location of the most recent hotline caller. “Plot a course to these coordinates.” 

“But…sir, that’s out in the Eld system. There’ve been no reports of any-–” 

“Plot the course, Kaon. There’s someone out there who needs killing, and we’re the mecha honor-bound to cleanse the stars of such filth.” 

Kaon sadly looks at the bit of time-sensitive intel that will soon age into obsolescence and obeys. 

And the hunt for the Decepticons’ most dangerous traitors continues.


End file.
